


The consolation date

by selea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selea/pseuds/selea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John breaks up with his girlfriend, Sherlock decides to cheer him up a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The consolation date

Through the last week, John had grown to be more and more nervous and reserved. He barely talked, touched his meals or read newspapers, his indecision woke him up several times during the night, that is, if he managed to fell asleep at all. The last day, the only way he could calm down a bit was by pacing fearfully up and down in their apartment. He kept reaching for his phone every five minutes, but never made a call or sent a message. Sherlock took John to crime scenes with him, in a futile attempt to distract him, which usually worked for mere five to ten minutes (depending on disfigurement of the body), played John’s favourite songs on the violin or annoyed him with forensic tests, but all he could really do was wait. And the more desperate John was, the harder was for Sherlock to hide his concern.

But that afternoon, when Sherlock returned home from the morgue with a freshly cut hand in a leaking plastic bag, it was like the book turned to the next chapter. He found John peacefully sitting in his chair, staring blindly through the window. He finally decided.

“John,” he greeted, removing his coat and scarf before turning his attention to the shoelaces. It took John a few moments before he realized his friend was home.

“Sherlock,” he muttered, turning his head towards the front door, noticing two bags in Sherlock’s hand. “Oh, another hand ... and milk!?”

“Yeah, we run out two days ago,” Sherlock replied as the whole thing was something that happens on regular bases. “Going out tonight?”

“How did you ... never mind, yes,” he mumbled and quickly returned his attention to the window, safely hidden in his bubble of self inflicted guilt.

“When?”

“Eight.”

“Oh, I’ll tell Mrs Hudson we’ll have dinner earlier.”

“No, I ... err ...I’ll skip, don’t bother her,” said John, not moving an inch.

“Fine as well,” he replied, trying to sound as uninterested as possible, which became kind of a habit in the conversations concerning John’s girlfriends. He quietly slipped into the kitchen and for the rest of afternoon John had to listen to the sounds of bones breaking in most painful ways imaginable.

At half past seven, John quietly took his jacket, vaguely waved at Sherlock, covered with drops of blood and pieces of bones in the middle of the kitchen, and left. He didn’t shave, as he always did before going on a date, he didn’t change his favourite jumper he only wore at home to something more formal. He didn’t even smirk at the mess Sherlock made.

Sherlock dropped the hammer and the last intact finger and jumped to the window to check in which direction John headed. He literally torn his blood stained clothes off, took a shower at the speed of light and run after him. It had to be a bar, definitely not a restaurant, in which he was comfortable in, not a really formal place in less than half an hour walking distance, which was actually rather close, based on the painfully slow pace John had. Since he headed away from the centre, there were not many places he would go to and Sherlock had a hunch.

He headed to the main road and turned left, and after a few blocks right into a small one way alley. It was quarter past eight when he reached the old Irish pub. He spotted John immediately, when he rushed past the windows not to arise suspicion. It hit him harder than he predicted, seeing him conversing with Jennet. He knew what was going to happen, he deduced it a month ago, but he still became agitated. He could vividly hear John’s words, he played out the whole scenario in his head a thousand times, a new one each time John introduced him to his new girlfriend. But he had to lay low, he didn’t want to scare his best friend away, just having him around on a safe distance was better than not having him at all.

He didn’t have to wait long before Jennet came out of the pub with an angry face and watery eyes. John was still at the table, defeated, facing the half empty glass of water before him. He wanted to run to him, he wanted to console him, to say she didn’t deserve him anyway, he wanted to hug him so badly. But seeing him there, quietly playing with his glass, stressed over a girl ... no, he wasn’t what he really need. Sherlock reserved a table at John’s favourite restaurant, imaging that it would cheer him up, but it would be a mare pretend, a play of troubled souls hidden behind happy faces. It wasn’t a good idea after all.

He retained a sight and put his serious, emotionless face back on. John was still at the table and he had to disappear before he would notice him. John always said that he hated it when Sherlock secretly followed him around, but Sherlock had the feeling that deep down, it made him fell important. Retaining this happy thought, Sherlock dragged himself towards home. He had to clean the kitchen before John returned anyway.

“Sherlock?” a voice called behind him and John grabbed his arm to turn him around. “It really is you!”

“John,” he cried, his brain frantically searching for a valid excuse. It had to be crystal clear to John why he was there. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a date?”

“Was on a date,” John corrected him and for a moment guilt crossed his face again. “I don’t like making break ups into big events.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sherlock muttered after collecting back together his usual annoying self.

“No, no, don’t. It just wasn’t meant to be. You knew this before me anyway.”

They headed home in silence, submerged in their own regrets. They turned to Baker Street, when Sherlock caught a glimpse of the flashing restaurant sign. He screwed up the evening anyway, might as well go through with it.

“Dinner?”

John looked at him, a big not in the right mood written all over his face, but he didn’t really have an effective weapon against Sherlock’s puppy eyes.

“Oh God, fine.”

To John’s surprise, his favourite table near the window was waiting for them in the otherwise full restaurant. With the excuse that it’s too late he only wanted to eat something quick and go home, but they ended up ordering the whole course, even Sherlock. And while laughing at the memory of Lestrade’s surprised face when they barehanded brought him the murderer of their last case, the heavy guilt slowly lifted from John’s shoulders. By the time for desert, John found himself giggling for no reason.

“You know, I wish this was a date,” he said absentmindedly, while Sherlock almost choked on his last bite. Impossible. There’s no way he knows, he was extremely careful about this.

“I haven’t had this much fun on a date in a very long time,” John tried to explain himself, a bit embarrassed and puzzled by Sherlock’s almost alarmed expression, which immediately turned into a smile. To Sherlock, it sounded just too good to actually mean what he wanted it to mean.

“Sure, why not, I suppose I could try it once,” said Sherlock casually, carefully placing his cutlery on the plate, hoping John won’t notice his shaking hands. No, there was no way he knew, but if it made John happy, he was happy.

“You’ve never been on a date?”

“Well, not really my area ...”

“Right ... Then we should definitely hit the streets! It’s not that late jet,” suggested John with a whole new energy Sherlock hasn’t seen for a long time. He was happy he could cheer him up after all, and went along with John’s suggestion without a question asked, determined to bury his felling for the evening. It was John’s evening. They headed downtown.

“I used to hang out here a lot during college,” said John, opening the door for Sherlock. It was an old, but stylish bar, full with small groups hanging around round tables and in the sofas near walls. The music was rather relaxing and just loud enough for a conversation.

“There’s a billiard room in the back. Do you want to have a game?”

“I suppose ...”

“I see, there will be a lot of first times for you today!” said John with a wicked smile and stepped to the bar while pointing to Sherlock the direction of the billiard room, not that he didn’t figure it out already. He suspiciously followed John with his gaze, but stepped in the indicated direction anyway. John met him there shortly, holding two billiard cues and accompanied by a waitress with two big glasses of beer.

“What? No. Why would I want to drink?”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

 

“My head feels funny,” Sherlock mumbled, trying to walk in a straight line besides John. “And there seems to be something wrong with my legs.”

“People usually just say they had too much to drink.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Of course not,” John said, trying to keep a serious face. “How is it? Does it feel any more ... relaxing?”

“It’s annoying. What if a murder happens and Lestrade calls us?” he protested, leaning on John for a moment, when he lost his balance.

“Don’t worry, the corpse won’t escape,” John seriously remarked. “Give me your hand before you take a tumble.”

He grabbed his hand and pulled him closer to help him balance before Sherlock even managed to process what he told him. And suddenly walking straight wasn’t the main thing on his mind. John was holding his hand. In the middle of the Regent’s park at three o’clock in the morning. With no one around. He suddenly felt less intoxicated and it took him all he had left to keep John and the whole situation away from his imagination, or, at least only inside his imagination.

Despite all adrenaline and serotonin rushing through him, he was dead tired and several times more annoying than usual, when they finally reached Baker Street. John managed to keep him quiet for that one minute when they entered not to wake up Mrs Hudson, and took him directly to Sherlock’s bedroom. He dumped him on the bed and massaged a bit his shoulder.

“Maybe I’m a bit too old for this after all,” he mumbled to himself. “Sherlock, take off your clothes.”

“What?! No! Why?”

“Are you going to sleep in your coat?”

Sherlock kept staring at John and visibly deliberating whether he should obey or not while John removed his shoes. “Come on, Sherlock.”

His friend crawled out of the bed and started pulling his coat of his shoulder with such grace it was almost painful to watch, but really amusing to John, seeing the genius consulting detective struggling with such an everyday task. He immediately gave up asking him to remove the rest of his clothes, let alone put on his pyjamas. After restraining himself to film Sherlock with his phone and posting it on his blog, John finally pulled on the sleeve, releasing Sherlock from the tenacious grasp of his coat, which lifelessly felt on the floor behind him.

“Now, back to bed.”

“No. I’m not tired. I have to finish my experiment.”

“Sherlock ...”

“I want my afternoon tea.”

“Yes, it’ half past four, but in the morning!” John sighted, emphasizing the last word more than necessary. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, trying to intimidate him with a pathetic imitation of anger, but than his face softened. He blindly made a step backwards directly on his coat, entangling himself and losing his balance for the hundredth time that night. While frantically waving with his arms in a futile attempt to regain his poise, he managed to grab John’s jumper, pulling him down on his bed with him. He landed directly on Sherlock’s chest, forcing a loud gasp out of him.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, are you all right?” cried John, trying to remove himself without crushing Sherlock under him even more.

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock slowly whispered in response, his eyes closed.

“Of course, Sherlock,” exhaled John, sitting down on the side of the bed, relieved. “Sherlock?”

His friend didn’t respond. He felt asleep in the same uncomfortable position he landed on the bed, but his breading was calm and there was a glimpse of happiness on his face. After watching him sleep for a few minutes, John rolled him in a less twisted position and tucked him in. As strange as he found it, he felt proud of Sherlock.

“I love you, too.”

He slowly leaned over Sherlock and gently kissed him on the forehead before standing up. He stopped at the doorway on his way out and glanced at his sleeping friend one more time.

“I’m sure you would be outraged if you would be awake right now, but thank you. For today. And all the days before.”

 


End file.
